


take the longing and give it a name

by zipegs



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Missing Scene, Multi, One Shot Collection, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Racism, Polyamory, Post-Canon Fix-It, Pre-Canon, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Unrequited, sometimes singing hymns isn't enough to keep your dick soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-01-27 02:34:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21384658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zipegs/pseuds/zipegs
Summary: A collection of oneshots for The Terror Rarepair WeekDay 7:They can still find solace and beauty and joy in each other, even after all they have seen. All they havedone.
Relationships: Commander James Fitzjames/Lt Henry T. D. Le Vesconte, Harry D. S. Goodsir/Dr Alexander McDonald, John Bridgens/Harry Peglar, Lt John Irving/Lt Edward Little, Sophia Cracroft/Captain Francis Crozier, Sophia Cracroft/Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames, Thomas Hartnell & Harry Peglar, Thomas Hartnell/Lt John Irving
Comments: 61
Kudos: 93
Collections: The Terror Rarepair Week 2019





	1. sophia cracroft/francis crozier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for **Missing Moments Monday**: "A Touch of Fingers" & "The Moment They Knew"
> 
> Huge thank you to [kit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drowninglovers) for betaing!

There is a certain allure to being wanted—to seeing evidence of your own worth writ so clearly on another’s visage. It stirs Sohpia’s heart beneath her breast, sends it galloping rapidly enough to outpace any horse she has ever known. She is unused to it, to being wanted in this _particular_ manner, and its novelty delights her. The attention thrums through her like electricity. It’s invigorating; she finds herself drawn to its source—to Francis—like a moth to a flame.

In contrast, Francis’s likeness has never held much sway over her; he is not so comely a man, with his thinning hair and lined complexion. He is weathered and aged, roughened by his years at sea. But when looks at her, she feels seen. It is not like that with other men; the few she has known to desire her relish her figure, or her wealth, or the soft ringlets of her hair. They do not speak to her like an equal, do not watch her through eyes aflame with longing. Francis is different; his intensity excites her. She becomes caught up in the way his gaze pursues her, finds herself ensnared by the thrill of his attention.

When she is with him, she feels bold.

All her life, she has been kept. Caged. Dressed and displayed like a doll, instructed in etiquette and courtesy. Her life has been dictated by others, and ever has she found herself constrained to obedience. With Francis, she understands what it might be like to break free.

They steal moments wherever they can find them—a look shared when Francis is over for tea, the touch of his hand against the small of her back as he leads her through the gardens. The brush of their fingers before Aunt Jane and Uncle John have entered the sitting room. Each touch sets her alight. Each glance suffuses her with pleasure. At the opera, Francis leans across into her box, his gloved hand resting innocently atop her own, as though he had meant to place it upon the velvet divider between them and misjudged the distance. He whispers to her, his breath hot against her temple, and she thinks of Pyramus and Thisbe, of the delight of secrecy and the seductiveness of that which has been forbidden.

She grows to love him, in her own way. To look fondly on the boyish gap between his teeth, the knowing curve of his lips. He is kind and honest and knows how to incite her laughter, to arouse her curiosity, her passion.

They covet their time together, and let the fledgling bond between them blossom into something furtive. Something beautiful. Francis makes her feel both girlish and experienced—in his hands, she is a contradiction of the most delicious make. He brings her to life; she never feels as present, as radiant, as she does when she is with him. Each evening, as she sits at the dinner table each evening across from her aunt, her secret expands within her until she is glowing with it—a tiny corner of life she has carved out for herself, and herself alone.

And then Francis leaves—sails south with Captain Ross.

At first, she merely awaits his return. But with his absence comes knowledge. It creeps slowly over her, as coldness chases the embers of a fire. She looks back on their liaison with the sharpness of clarity, her perception no longer skewed by her fervour. She recalls their encounters with neither shame nor regret, but all the same, she comes to know what she did not before; there will be no future for them. What Francis kindled in her was not love—not truly. Not the sort for which she will consign herself to loneliness. To widowhood.

In the four years that pass, Sophia grows an age. She wonders, sometimes, what she will tell Francis when he comes home (it is easier to think in absolutes—the fact that he might _not_ return is locked firmly away in back of her mind, only considered during the darkest of her humours), and whether he, too, will return changed.

She hopes dearly that he will—she is not certain she can bear his heartbreak and emerge unscathed.


	2. john irving/edward little

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for **Tender Tuesday**: "A Friend in Need" & "A Comforting Touch"
> 
> Huge thank you to [kit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drowninglovers) for betaing!

“Lieutenant Little?”

John peers into the wardroom with no small measure of uncertainty; despite how well—how deeply—he has come to know Edward, the days have grown long and jagged, and tear at even the strongest of bonds. There are some things, he knows, a man must face on his own. His fingers curl tentatively around the doorframe, and he is brave enough to pierce the threshold with only the upper quarter of his body. It is dark inside—in the winter, the ship’s belly grows cavernous and cold, and there are but few tapers left to cut through the gloom.

Edward sits at the table, dimly illuminated. His focus does not lie on the parchment strewn before him but rather in some far off place apparent only to himself. There is a small frown pulling at his lips, and his visage droops beneath the weight of his thoughts.

John hesitates. When it becomes apparent that Edward has either not noticed him or does not intend to respond, he clears his throat softly and compels himself to enter.

“Edward?”

It is not until John reaches the table that Little looks up. His eyes gleam in the candlelight; John cannot quite tell if he has been crying, and has not the heart to ask. These last few weeks—few _months_—have been a trial for them all, yet he knows none have carried so heavy a burden as Edward. With the Creature’s reemergence, the Captain’s worsening condition and present illness, and the general unrest of the men, there has been much to address, and little to mitigate their many difficulties. John has watched helplessly as Edward shoulders each new weight, has witnessed him bow and shudder beneath their pressure. And yet, regrettably, there is not much he can offer, save his faith. His love.

_I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me, _he thinks, and shifts his weight.

“It’s nearly morning watch,” John says.

Little looks away.

“Edward.”

He stares down at the table, but as it was when first he entered the room, John does not think he is actually examining it. It pains him to see Edward like this. When he closes his eyes, he still pictures the lieutenant as he was in those first years, whiskers trimmed and hair smoothed, the curl of a smile on his lips. Free of ice crystals, and snow blindness, and chapped, reddened skin. In the time that’s passed, lines have carved themselves into his face, the flesh beneath his eyes has sagged and darkened. John does not doubt that he himself looks much the same; they have all been altered by this—no man will emerge unscathed.

It does not make seeing it any less trying.

He places a hand upon the table. The need to touch is swelling within him, and—as always—his first instinct is to recoil from it. But he swallows the urge and lowers himself to his knees, casting a glance toward the doorway. No men have stirred. They are alone—as much as one can be on board such a vessel.

Slowly, John raises his other hand. He thinks of all the ways in which Edward has comforted him—of how much each gentle touch has affected him in his times of need—and places it on Edward’s shoulder. The effect is near-instantaneous. Little melts, spine curving downward, body sinking into his chair. He rests his elbows upon the table and lowers his face into his hands, torso swaying subtly toward John like the stalk of some gentle flower pulled by the wind. The sight unfurls in John’s body, warm and bittersweet, and he curls his fingers into Edward’s shoulder. The fabric of his waistcoat bunches beneath his grip; he can feel the insinuation of Edward’s form beneath it.

Little inhales; John feels the breath shudder deeply through his body and quiver its way out again. With that single, simple motion, he is lost. He shuffles closer, lifting his hand from the table and reaching up to smooth Edward’s hair. He does so with the hesitant tenderness with which he always touches him, the tips of his first fingers barely brushing the deep brown tresses. Still, he feels their closeness deeply. In the silence which follows, tenuous and aching, John fumbles for something to say. As always, he feels their ranks acutely. It is not his place to give orders or unprompted advice; Lieutenant Little is superior here, as he is everywhere. It is not John’s place to take control, to think he might know better or more than Edward does, or even to seem as though he might think thusly. And yet there are times in which they break those rules—when they cast the fetters of rank aside and attempt to inhabit some other place where neither sex, nor command, nor nature itself holds any dominion over them. He only hopes they might find that place here, and now.

That sometime, at the end of all this, they might discover it again.

Slowly, lightly, John covers Edward’s hands with his own. He urges them downward with naught but the suggestion of pressure, and Edward, kind and gentle and weary as he is, allows himself to be led. His expression, when it is bared, is as open and vulnerable as John has ever seen. He spares but a moment to cast another glance at the door, and then he brings his palm up to rest against Edward’s cheek. Edward’s eyelids flutter closed; he leans into John’s touch, and John thinks (traitorously, blasphemously) that this must be what Christ felt, when he decided to offer himself up for love of the world and all its creatures.

“Do you know,” he begins softly, “Isaiah 41:10?” He keeps his other hand on Edward’s and dares to curl his fingers lightly around it.

Edward’s mouth lilts downward in thought. He opens his eyes and gives the slightest shake of his head.

“_Fear thou not; for I am with thee,_” John recites. He brushes his thumb over the back of Edward’s hand._ “Be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness_.”

It is, perhaps, too bold. He feels himself blush and spares a moment to be thankful for how little light graces the room.

But Edward does not chastise him. He does not frown or pull away. He wraps his fingers around John’s, not quite interlaced, but enough of an embrace that it would be deemed unseemly were there any witnesses. There is a glint in his eyes which John cannot quite read, but he thinks—_hopes_—that he has made his meaning clear.

“I shall endeavor,” Edward says, “to trust in him.”

John’s mouth draws upwards; he tightens his hold on Edward’s hand and leans forward, pressing their foreheads together. The hand on Edward’s cheek slides back to tangle in his unruly hair. He wishes he could offer some further assurance, or insist that all will be as it should, but he is not certain what he truly believes, and he will not hinder Edward with falsehoods.

“Come to bed, Edward,” John says instead, the words no more than a whisper into the limited space between them. “Please. For my sake.”

Edward hesitates; his muscles stiffen, but John does not allow himself to relent. He stays where he is, skin to skin, nose to nose.

Finally, Edward nods—a single, short dip of the head—and draws back.

John allows his hand to fall from Edward’s hair and permits it to graze his neck, his shoulder, his chest. He stands, pulling himself up with the table as Edward, too, lifts himself from his chair.

As they slip out of the wardroom, John can’t help but cast a look back at the table. There is, he thinks, some prophecy lying hid in the spread of papers over dark wood. Some omen writ in their splay, as doom once was thought to lurk in the entrails of cattle, the spread of birds across the sky.

He is not certain they can escape it.

But in this moment, with Edward slipping into his berth beside him, he thinks he doesn’t much mind.


	3. henry goodsir/alexander mcdonald

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for **Tender Tuesday**. CW for period-typical racial slurs (as found in McDonald's _A narrative of some passages..._)
> 
> Huge thank you to [kit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drowninglovers) for betaing!

_It seems that the Esquimaux hold the opinion that “coming events cast their shadows before,” for he believed that these thoughts were the presentiments of some evil which had befallen her in his absence._

“Mr. Goodsir.”

Harry looks up slowly, reluctant to pull his gaze away from the book splayed open in his lap. When he does, he finds Dr. McDonald standing several paces away, wiping his hands on a towel.

He raises his brows and nods at the book in Harry’s hand. “Still reading it, I see?”

Harry cannot help the gentle flush that rises in his cheeks. He is indeed still reading it, though not for want of finishing. He has done so several times over, under the guise of eking out some tidbit of information to aid them in conversing with the Inuk woman. There are other reasons, though—ones he will not speak aloud. He admires Dr. McDonald greatly, finds him thoughtful and kind and overwhelmingly handsome. And it is easy to pretend, in the reading, that the doctor is speaking to him—that these stories, these bits of knowledge, are something he is sharing with Harry directly, rather than with any who may put eyes to the neatly printed words.

He tightens his grip on the book, folding it closed over the finger marking his place, and grants Dr. McDonald a smile. “Yes,” he says, gaze flickering down to the cover and back up again. “It’s quite informative. I’d been hoping it might shed some further light on how best to proceed with… with the Lady Silence.”

McDonald hums, but Harry fears there is something _knowing_ in his smile. Something perceptive shining behind the pleasantness in his visage. But he is a kind man and does not call attention to Harry’s peculiarities.

“And how are you getting on with her? Has she spoken to you yet?”

Harry blows a breath out through his nose. “In a way,” he says. He recalls the ease with which those foreign words spill from between the woman’s lips, at such odds with his endeavors to fit them in his own mouth. He thinks of their jagged, weighty shape, like puzzle pieces waiting to be fit together. Of the brush of her hands over the paper on which he writes. They do converse, but the real meaning, he thinks, lies buried beneath their words, hidden in the gaps between the vocabularies they do not share. “Although not quite as much as the Captain hopes, I fear.”

An idea comes to him. He looks intently at McDonald, who has turned to the table and begun to busy himself with organizing the various tools which lay leftover from his last patient. “It might prove helpful,” he begins, watching McDonald’s hands play over the instruments and attempting to temper his eagerness, “to introduce someone more, er, _experienced_. With the native tongue. Perhaps you would consider accompanying me when next I speak with her?”

He cannot help the blossom of hope in his chest. The thought of sharing those hours, those tight quarters, with McDonald is enough to warm him as well as any mouthful of whiskey. He considers how McDonald might smile at him when he proves his competence. How they might bend their heads together over Harry’s dictionary, or how the doctor’s arm might graze his own in some unintentional misjudgment of distance. He has no illusions of anything untoward—an attraction of this sort, he has found, is near always unrequited. And, even if by some miracle of God it is not, it would certainly be inappropriate for the doctor to engage in any sort of entanglement with the surgeon under his command.

And yet, it does not make the prospect any less sweet.

Dr. McDonald has ceased his work. He is looking at Harry with that same expression, the same gentle discernment with which he was regarding him before.

“Perhaps,” he says, and looks back at his tools again. “With how frequently the men are taking ill, I fear my time is in short supply.” He glances back apologetically.

Harry’s stomach sinks. He makes himself nod, although the motion feels rather ungraceful and overlong. When he smiles, he finds the sensation much the same. “Of course. I would not dream of asking you to forsake your duties.”

Dr. McDonald smiles gently and comes to stand beside him. Their closeness sends a thrill through Harry, and his heart kicks up a subtle rhythm. When he speaks, he places a hand upon his shoulder.

“Don’t despair of it just yet,” McDonald says. “You’re doing well. It will take time, I’m sure, but you’re well-suited to it. Have faith in yourself; I do.”

Harry is smiling genuinely now, unable to suppress the joy that floods him upon the doctor’s praise. Were he a flower, he would lilt toward it as though following the sun, all his petals unfurling under that life-giving gaze. When a moment has passed, and he feels himself stretching the bounds of propriety, he drops his gaze back to McDonald’s book. 

His smile, though, does not falter.

_Indeed, had not anxiety for the result of the voyage prompted these questionings, there was no reason, from anything we had seen of him, to doubt what he had said, for he was remarkable for his strict adherence to the truth._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The italicized passages which begin and end this chapter are taken verbatim from Alexander McDonald's _A narrative of some passages in the history of Eenoolooapik…_ which can be found [here](https://archive.org/details/cihm_46887/page/n7), for those interested


	4. thomas hartnell & henry peglar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for **Weddingsday**. Includes Hartnell/Irving & Bridgens/Peglar
> 
> Huge thank you to [kit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drowninglovers) for betaing!

“Do you ever think about it?”

Thomas doesn’t look at him as he speaks; his gaze is fixed somewhere in the distance, on that flat expanse of white turned navy by the surrounding darkness. It’s a calm night, but Henry can feel the cold starting to worm its way through his many layers of wool and flannel and linen. The chill is unavoidable out here in this nothingness, as he has come to learn. He tucks his hands beneath his armpits.

“About what?”

Tom glances over his shoulder.

It’s clear that he has something to say which he does not intend for others to overhear. Henry knows they are the only ones on this part of the ship; there are two other men farther aft, but certainly out of earshot. Still, he supposes that one can never be too careful, especially if this is to be the sort of conversation he believes it will.

“Marriage.”

Henry hums. In truth, it’s a prospect that frequently comes to mind. He talks about it with John on occasion, late at night when they’re huddled together in his berth—thigh to thigh, ankle to ankle. And he’d thought about it before, too, back on land, and even sometimes aboard the _Beagle_. It’s not so much the ceremony as the bond that appeals to him, but he’s not too proud to confess that he wonders what it would be like to stand before his friends and family with John at his side. To declare his love in front of God and man, and not be hanged for it.

“All the time,” he admits quietly. He chances a glance at Tom, who seems to sag with relief.

“Me too.”

“Have you talked about it?” Henry asks. “With—” He lowers his voice. “With Lieutenant Irving?”

He thinks Thomas blushes—it’s hard to tell; out here, their cheeks are eternally apple-red with cold, their noses always rouged and dry. He looks down, in shyness or embarrassment or some other emotion which Henry cannot quite identify.

“In all but name.” He shrugs and sticks his hands in the pockets of his coat. “We— We haven’t really… it’s—”

Henry steps closer. He unfolds the arm closest to Thomas and wraps it around his shoulder so that their bodies are pressed side-to-side.

After a moment, Thomas blows out a breath. “I’d never really thought about it—about a wedding,” he admits, looking over at Henry, “until I couldn’t have one. Sounds silly, I know, but…”

“It’s not silly.” Henry wonders what it must be like for Thomas. He and John do not share the same… _reservations…_ that he knows Lieutenant Irving fosters, and their hesitation in broaching the matter had been born more out of John’s fear for Henry than either of their despair of sin. When they speak of marriage now, it is with wistfulness and promise, vows whispered in the space between breaths. He wonders when Tom first dared to ask of it, and what Irving might have said. How they might have spoken _around_ instead of about it, and whether Thomas knows with any certainty where Irving stands on the matter. “John and I have shared vows. But we do talk, on occasion, of how we might celebrate, were we allowed to.”

“You’ve been together for so long.”

“Well, yes.” That is yet another luxury they have, which Tom and Irving do not. “But things are different here. The bonds we’ve made… they’re not like they would be were we on land. Or sea.”

Thomas doesn’t reply. He looks back out into the distance, and Henry squeezes his shoulder, pulls him in a little tighter.

“You needn’t be ashamed of what you feel, Tom. There are boys I know back home who married near twice as quickly and knew their ladies half as well.”

Thomas huffs out a laugh.

“Truly,” Henry continues. His face cracks into a smile.

“No, I don’t doubt you.” Tom is smiling now too—close-lipped and small, but smiling nonetheless.

Silence falls between them. It’s a companionable sort, and they allow it to bloom, filling the frigid night with its gentle warmth. Fondness grows in Henry’s chest as it extends; he marvels at how lucky he is to have found a friend in Thomas Hartnell, and a kindred spirit. How lucky they both are to be with the ones they love. He thinks of those who left their partners behind, and must face the prospect of never seeing them again. Of leaving them with no answers. Of dying without having the chance to say goodbye.

In this, he supposes, they can be considered lucky.

“Have you asked him outright?” Henry prods. He has seen the way Irving looks at Thomas, has heard tell of the strength of his affections, and cannot imagine the lieutenant would deny him.

Thomas shakes his head, looking down at his feet.

“You ought to. Or, well, you ought to speak more plainly about it, at least. Perhaps we can convince him to hold a service, just the four of us.” 

Thomas looks up, a small smile forming on his lips.

“Is that even permitted? For a man to marry himself?”

“Does it matter?” Henry’s grinning now too, imagining them clustered together in Irving’s berth, whispering verses and vows and trading kisses just out of sight. “Anyway, he isn’t ordained, is he? Wouldn’t be official anyway, but it could be nice. I know John would find it endearing.”

“All right,” Tom says. There’s hope in his eyes, and an excitement Henry knows is mirrored in his own. “Yes. I’ll speak to him.”

\---

They marry on a Wednesday. Before God’s eyes and their own. And though it is not at all how Henry once might have pictured his wedding—cramped and hushed, secret and soft—it feels right. Fitting.

He looks at Tom, wrapped up smiling and teary-eyed in Lieutenant Irving’s arms, and thinks how blessed they are to have each other here, in this darkest of places.


	5. john irving/edward little

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for **Thirstday**: "A Sudden Shock of Skin"
> 
> I make no apologies for the absurdity that follows. And again, huge thank you to [kit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drowninglovers) for betaing!

He hadn’t meant to look. Irving is not _that_ sort of man—even if the subject of his attractions were a woman, he would find no thrill in voyeurism. It was an accident, a byproduct of some careless mariner leaving the door to Little’s berth slid open just far enough for light to slice out into the darkness of the corridor. It had caught Irving’s eye was all, and he’d turned his head to look before the sight had even truly registered. And it isn’t even as though he saw that much; Little’s back was to the door, and Bridgens, standing behind him, obscured much of the view. 

But he _had_ seen.

The memory of it rushes through him like the strongest of drinks, warming his face and neck and ears until he begins to sweat beneath his uniform. Edward, hair mussed, readying himself for sleep. His braces hanging limp from his trousers, bare from the waist up. Irving nearly stopped dead when he caught sight of him, just past the door to Edward’s berth. Shamefully, he had to tamp down the urge to trace his steps backward for a second look.

He clutches his pen tighter, grip made insecure by perspiration, and the shaft slips tantalizingly in his hand.

_Jesus! What a friend for sinners. Jesus, lover of my soul. _He hums quietly to himself, picking a pitch slightly too high and a tempo slightly too quick. _Friends may fail me, foes assail me. He, my savior, makes me whole._

John imagines himself in Bridgens’ place. He pictures himself helping Edward untie his cravat, how his knuckles would brush against the stubble on his neck. He’d help him out of his shirtsleeves, fingers steady and practiced on the buttons.

He presses the tip of his pen too hard against the parchment, and it tears, ink pooling beneath the nib like blood.

_Hallelujah! What a savior! Hallelujah! What a friend!_

John imagines how Edward’s nipples might pebble in the cold of his berth; how his skin might tighten with gooseflesh and the way he might shiver, muscles tensing just underneath.

He exhales shakily through his nose, desperately trying to regain control of himself. His trousers have begun to grow tight, and he daren’t look down at his lap for fear of what he may find.

_Saving, helping, keeping, loving, He is with me to the end._

These thoughts are not new; they have come to him frequently throughout the short span of his life, but never has he found it quite so difficult to silence them. It is not as though he is unused to being in close quarters with men. On the contrary—as a Navy man, it is a situation to which he has grown accustomed. He has always found comfort at sea, has found a sort of poetry in surrounding himself with temptation and rising above it.

But here, hunched over his desk humming hymn tunes, with his pen unmoving and his prick hard in his pants, he wonders if this will be one fight he does not win.

John remembers descending to the orlop in search of Mr. Hickey. Remembers the shock and horror and _arousal_ which had come with finding Mr. Gibson instead, disheveled and limping. He has thought of that encounter often in the time that has passed since. Has even gone so far as to imagine taking Edward down there—to envision himself guiding the lieutenant’s trousers down his thighs and putting a hand on him.

He whimpers, prick jumping in his smalls.

_Jesus!_ He sings with near-silent desperation, opening his mouth to fit his lips around the word. The sound is breathy and high in this small space, thin as chiffon and twice as fragile. _What a strength in weakness! Let me hide myself in Him._

His right hand still clutches his pen, though he has forsaken all thought of writing. He cannot remember where he stopped.

John’s other hand is clenched into a tight fist atop his thigh. His groin aches with its closeness. It would be so easy, he thinks lightheadedly, to press it against himself. To relieve the pressure, just for a moment. No one would know.

Perhaps—

Perhaps Edward would hear him. His singing, or his sighs, or what little whimpers he cannot stifle. He would think him in pain, maybe, and come see what befell him. He would slide the door aside after knocking, not waiting for a response, and would find Irving with his hand between his legs. His mouth would fall open, and he would stand there for a moment, shocked. But that shock would give way to something else. Something hungry. He’d watch John with heated eyes. He’d slide the door shut behind him, and when he turned back around, John would see the telltale swell of his trousers.

He would have stopped touching himself when Edward entered, mortification stilling his hand, but it would rouse itself to motion now, with the weight of the lieutenant’s full focus turned on him. John’s prick would ache beneath his own hand, and he would breathe heavy and desperate though his mouth and nose. In contrast, Edward would move slowly, ever the picture of restraint. He would make John wait. He would test the limits of his eagerness, would kneel between John’s legs and take his face in his hands and—

John whimpers. His hips buck up into his palm and he gasps, pen falling from his fingertips and clattering against the floor.

He screws his eyes shut and bites his lip. _Tempted, tried, and often failing, _he thinks, and slides a hand beneath his linens. _He, my strength, my victory wins._


	6. james fitzjames/henry le vesconte

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for **Frightday**: "Ain't No Grave." CWs for canon major character death & some slight body horror
> 
> Huge thank you to [kit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drowninglovers) for betaing!

The first time Henry sees him, he thinks the scurvy has got him at last.

He’s never contended with it before, but from what he’s seen of the crew, he would have thought it to be slower. More painful. As it is, he feels well, more or less.

But then, it seems a bit incongruous for someone who’s _more or less well_ to be catching sight of their expired friends just around the corner.

He’s on his way to the command tent when it happens, and he stops cold, nearly falling face-first onto the shale. It’s just a flash—greasy black hair, an eye turned red as a cherry tomato, a body clothed only in its linens. He feels his heart vault into the back of his throat and nearly chokes on it.

“All right, Lieutenant?”

He’s too astounded to do much more than gawp but manages to snap his jaw shut after a moment and give a short nod. The apparition has long since departed, yet speech is beyond him still. He stares at the short, cramped passage between the tents where James had but a moment ago absconded until the man who called out to him departs, and does not once look to see who it was.

\---

Three days pass before he next glimpses Fitzjames, but there is not a single moment in the meantime during which he ceases to think of him. His mind is adrift with memories of the _Excellent _and the _Clio_ and St. Helen, of James waking soft and drowsy at his side, the morning light gilding his mussed brown curls. James with tears glistening in his eyes, his nose and cheeks crimson with cold. James staggering in his harness. James’s hair losing its sheen. James’s skin cracking like dry mud. James’s white shirt stained red with blood.

_Our pace has slowed_, Henry had said to Lieutenant Little. _We would move faster if we left the sick behind._

He sees James in the distance, standing still as stone out past the farthest line of camp, and thinks that perhaps this is retribution.

\---

By the time Captain Crozier is taken, Henry has given himself over to fear.

He sees James everywhere—between the tents, on the hills a ways off. Always standing in preternatural stillness, out in the distance. Henry can feel his eyes on him, even without turning to look. It makes his skin crawl, and sends dread churning hot and cold in his belly. It’s all he can think about; he senses James’s presence even when the man’s figure is hidden from him, feels that weighty gaze even when lying in his bedroll, sitting in the command tent.

There is, too, the impression that he is closing the distance between them. Each time Henry looks away, James reemerges a smidgen nearer. The difference is so negligible that, at first, he does not take note of it. It is only when he can perceive the individual lines of scarring on his face, the blood in his hairline, that the knowledge buries itself deep in his gut.

He does not know what will happen when James reaches him.

It is one thing he hopes to never discover.

\---

He presumes running will help. That he can put distance between himself and James. He will haul, and he will live, and he will leave this Horror behind him. He’ll come to remember James as he was: warm, lithe, full of mirth.

_There’s been a vote, Edward._

He is wrong.

No grave binds James; like some vengeful spirit, he follows, ever tied to the source of his betrayal. Panic pulls Henry’s stomach up into his ribcage. He can see him, even now, out of the corner of his eye, gaze boring into the side of Henry’s head. Impossibly, he does not move, ever gliding, ever _staring_, just in the periphery of his sight.

_I’m sorry_, he thinks, hauling desperately, the balls of his feet scrabbling for purchase on the shale. _I left you, I’m sorry, I left you, I’m—_

\---

The men begin to slow.

James does not.

\---

_“God damn, it’s cold.”_

_“They don’t call it the Arctic for nothing, darling.” James cocks an eyebrow, stretching as luxuriously as he is able in his berth. “You know, it’s _much_ warmer over here.”_

_“Is that so?”_

_James hums, mouth twisting into a sly smile. “If it happens to be your fingers which vex you, I can suggest several methods by which we might help them to thaw.”_

_Henry can’t help his surprised chuckle. He’s across the room in an instant, bending over James’s berth to capture his mouth in a kiss. “You filthy tease,” he jests, dragging his lips down to mouth along the line of James’s jaw. “You ought to count your blessings; if I hadn’t agreed to accompany you on this horrible, frigid expedition, who might you have relied on to chase away the chill?”_

_James sighs, and tilts his head back to allow Henry better access. “I’m sure I could have found someone amenable,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble beneath Henry’s lips. “Francis, perhaps, or—mmm—or Graham.”_

_“I hadn’t known your prospects were quite so numerous. Perhaps I ought to have left you to them.”_

_James fists a hand in Henry’s hair and drags him upward. Their lips brush, mouths breathing the same air._

_“Never. As ever, you remain the only prospect that matters, Dundy. I tell you now: I intend to ensure you never leave me. I shall drag you to the ends of the earth if I must.”_

_Henry smiles against James’s mouth, and pulls the blankets back so that he can slip beneath them._

_“You already have.”_

\---

When James appears in Henry’s tent, his skin is gray. His eyes are soft in their sockets, like grapes left out too long in the sun.

“Please,” Henry begs. His voice scrapes his throat raw; when he swallows, he tastes blood. “I didn’t— I didn’t mean it.”

James offers no response; he stares, unmoving, nightmare-torn. Henry’s heart unhinges in his chest.

He blinks. 

James is at the foot of his bedroll.

“Please.”

He is trembling. Hard. The room spins; James is the only fixed point, an omen of death staring down upon him.

His scent is sickening; Henry retches, and tastes copper.

James bends over his bedroll, the tips of his lank hair scraping across Henry’s cheek.

He parts his lips, and Henry closes his eyes.


	7. thomas hartnell/john irving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for **Sadderday**. CWs for canon major character death, graphic violence, & body horror
> 
> Huge thank you to [kit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drowninglovers) for betaing!

When it comes down to it, dying does not hurt as much as Thomas Hartnell expected. 

Once he has overcome the shock of it, he registers the sharp point of pain in his chest—a starburst flaring just beneath his breast—and thinks it a mercy. He has witnessed his friends’ flesh being ripped in thick ropes from their ice-white bones, has helped gather up bodies bereft of limbs and heads and torsos like kindling in his arms. And though he would not call this death easy—his muscles seize and spasm against his will, and it is difficult to draw breath—he knows there are far more horrible ways to die.

_They didn’t slice off his man parts and punch 23 holes into his lungs with a boat knife. That was Mr. Hickey!_

Thomas wonders how it must have felt to wrap your fists around hope and clutch it tight. To have it wrenched from between your fingers by a man you thought your friend—to have it cut out of you, peeled up from your body like the rind of an orange. He, at least, will suffer no such devastation; any residual hope he might have harbored fell from his chest like a dead bird when Lieutenant Hodgson's men bore Irving’s body back.

“You did so well, son.”

The world has begun to melt around the edges, colors dripping into each other like the first swirl of milk in a cup of murky tea. He has the sense of being submerged; Captain Crozier is a tiny pinprick of light above him, voice thick and warped. It trickles down as though from a distance.

“Go on. Go be with your brother now.”

But for the first time, as his eyes flutter shut and his body slackens, pain receding like a falling tide, Thomas isn’t thinking of him. Not really.

There’s someone else he is hoping to see first.


	8. sophia cracroft/francis crozier/james fitzjames

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for **Irving's Funday Sunday**.
> 
> One last, big thank you to [kit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drowninglovers), for putting up with my nonsense and helping make these little pieces the best they could be.

Sophia doesn’t know how this came to be their ritual. As with the majority of their relationship, they simply fell into it. It’s something she quite frequently marvels over—how easily the three of them have navigated uncharted waters—and she spares a moment to consider it now, leaning back against James and drawing her knees up to her chest. He wraps his arms around her as if by rote, and she smiles, turning her face toward him so her forehead presses lightly against his chin.

“Are you cold?” James murmurs, touching his lips to her hair, and Sophia shakes her head. The wind has begun to pick up; it licks at her skirts and sends them fluttering about her ankles, and the loose hair from her chignon kisses at her neck. But it is a pleasant sort of breeze, fresh and cool and tangy with brine.

She would have thought, considering how close her men had come to losing themselves out on that treacherous expanse of water, that they would seek to hide as far from its reaches as geography permitted. But mariners remain an enigma to her. For though they nearly came to lose their lives at sea (and even that fight had been hard-won), its siren song beckons them still. At times, Sophia wonders if their veins run thick with salt water in place of blood. She imagines them changelings, babes planted in their cradles by the gods of the ocean, ever heeding the call of their homeland.

It doesn’t matter; she will not feign to understand. There is so much about Francis, about James, which makes her feel othered. They share a bond, the two of them, and the brotherhood of their near-demise—by all rights, they should have sought each other alone. It troubles her, at times—in the early days especially, when she was unused to James’s night terrors and Francis’s general unrest. She did not know how to soothe them, how to aid, whether she ought to redirect their thoughts or engage them. Even now, she fears she is not as practiced at it as she ought to be—but that is why they have each other. It is one among many things which makes their union work; what weaknesses one finds in oneself are amended and supplemented in another.

“There is still one sandwich left,” James says.

“Let Francis have it,” Sophia lifts her gaze to look at him from under James’s chin. “He’s only had half.”

Francis cocks an eyebrow, pulling his hand from where it sat on James’s thigh to lean back upon it. “You’re neglecting to mention that I made off with the last of the cheese.” He smiles, showing the little gap between his teeth which Sophia has ever found most endearing. “Trying to fatten me up, are you?”

“I do quite miss your rotundity, Francis,” James jumps in. He is never one, Sophia has come to find, to sit out a jest.

“_Rotundity?_” His face contorts moderately, but upon his ever-stoic visage, Sophia thinks it the most outlandish display of disbelief and outrage she has hitherto witnessed.

She succumbs to giggles, high and unrestrained, and brings a hand up to wipe at the tears of mirth which have sprung forth unbidden from her eyes. “Oh, Francis, I’m sorry, I don’t—”

James has begun to chuckle too. Desperately, Sophia attempts to regain control of herself. “Your expression, it’s just—” she breaks off into another fit of giggles, burying her face in James’s neck.

“I was never _rotund_,” Francis protests, but he is grinning now too. “Broad, perhaps. Well-built.”

“Of course,” James says, so clearly humoring that Sophia’s laughter begins anew. “You’re right; I apologize, Francis. I was clearly mistaken.”

“_Rotund_,” he says again, watching them both with no small measure of amusement. As the last of their giggles are borne away on the breeze, he leans over and plucks the sandwich from the wooden plate on which it sits. “You’re incorrigible, the both of you.”

“Lord knows you wouldn’t have us any other way; isn’t that right, Sophia?”

She hums with falsified sobriety, lifting her head from beneath James’s and shaking the stray hair from her face. “Quite.”

Francis reaches out, tucking one wayward curl back behind her ear. His expression gentles, playful mirth melting into something softer and more genuine, and he leans in to touch his lips chastely to hers. She smiles against his mouth, pressing their foreheads together.

It is not always _quite_ so easy between them; like any lovers, they have their spats, their disagreements, their jealousies. Even if their pasts were not so ripe with tragedy, there would be plenty of fodder for discord. As it is, the ghost of the expedition haunts them all still—even Sophia. She will not belittle Francis and James’s suffering by claiming hers equals it, but she, too, felt and _feels_ the weight of those long years of silence. She, too, lost men out there, on that ice.

They do not seek to dismiss it; there is among them the acceptance that sorrow will ever be their companion. That they are not the same as they were before all of this.

But in a way, she finds that makes the peace they have managed to find all the sweeter. They can still find solace and beauty and joy in each other, even after all they have seen. All they have _done_.

She pulls back from Francis, that soft smile still warm on her lips, and he lifts his head to share a kiss with James. Sophia watches them, heart full, and wonders how she came to be so lucky. 

In another world, none of this would have come to pass. She could have sent Francis to his death, might have never have seen him or James or any of the expedition’s men again. Her heart clenches with the thought. 

This world, she thinks, is kinder. Gentler. It makes her cherish it all the more.

When Francis breaks the kiss, he settles himself once more beside James, and Sophia shifts so that she makes contact with them both. She reaches for Francis’s hand and interlaces their fingers. James’s palm draws gentle circles against her waist.

Before them, the sea rolls gently, its waves breaking with a susurrant roar against the cliff face. Whitecaps streak the murky green, as lines of fat glisten in a succulent cut of meat.

Sophia closes her eyes and lets the scent of the ocean carry her home.


End file.
